


Foreword

by Alannaa



Series: Reverb. [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Depression, Dissociation, Drug consumption, Drug discussion, F/M, General angsting all over the damn place, M/M, Mental Instability, Profanity, minecraft au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 14:57:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alannaa/pseuds/Alannaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do you do when you're trapped in a digital world that is designed to destroy you, while isolated from any help? The answer is you don't. You can only deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foreword

**Author's Note:**

> A while ago I mentioned wanting to do a nitty-gritty Minecraft AU and well...have a preface.
> 
> Eep.
> 
> Listen to "Wake" by Linkin Park for mood music.

They each manage it in their own way. Of course they do, they're grown-ass men. And they're all too tired to bother mothering each other anymore. After everything they've done, after how hard they've fought— _for_ each other and amongst themselves—I mean...who _needs_ looking after then?  
For Geoff, it's the fucking moonshine. Of course it is. None of the others really approve, not after he poisoned himself not once but three times perfecting the recipe and for what? The actual production process is time and resource-consuming so he can't just go on benders willy-nilly. In fact, if anything, the limits on the brewing process and how it curbs his consumption is a minor god-send. Still, why bother for so little gain? Maybe they're just bitter but it stands to reason that he won't stop after all this time. Leave him to his mourning, they reason. It's better than the few manic weeks when nothing but all-consuming rage over his loss drove him. When left to his own devices he reasons  that it isn't too much to ask for one night every once in a while where he doesn't have to remember. He used to spend these nights wondering what he is, if not a widow. The answer hasn't found him yet.  
Michael and Gavin are maybe the worst-off. Sure, they actually have potential, a future, in this place. But they paid for it like statues for an artist's wrath. They were dashed apart and lost enough pieces that between them they hardly form a single person together. So, logically they lean on one another, like two halves of a single whole. It sounds corny as shit, but neither of them much sleeps anymore. So at least they have someone to while away the hours with.  
It's still hard, between them, to cope with what's happened, mostly because their ailments require another's support which neither can give. Not without paying for it in some way. If his hands didn't still shake so much, Michael could hold Gavin still. And if Gavin weren't so wild, Michael could finally stand tall again. They're at an impasse. Can't waste time worrying about how they got in this situation; they just have to muck through.  
No one's entirely sure what happened with Ray, or when exactly the veneer on his interminable façade of hope wore away so much. He still clings to it like a bad joke, like he does to so much, but it's a dogged sort of resignation that pulls on the corners of his mendacious grins—are they grins or grimaces?—and nothing remotely sincere. Even he knows he isn't fooling anyone, and he won't admit what support system he uses, if he does. The others have their suspicions that after the nights spent draining Geoff's store with him, when he finally abandoned the effort to numb himself, he never again took it up. But still he plays at his late assurance like a dog worries a bone. Possibly the worst thing, though, is how insular he is about it. He carries on with day-to-day life, does a damn fine job of helping them all stay fed, alive, etc. Yet whatever light used to live behind his eyes is guttering. It's the only sign that something is wrong.  
Ryan won't admit it to anyone, because he's naturally quiet, but his game has been a real hell-ringer. It's left him more scarred than Gavin, who has the luxury of just being broken. He doesn't have to deal with the crushing terror of what he could and would do to his friends- the man he loves- if he lost control mainly because he doesn't have an over-active conscience. Ryan does, and Ryan's problem even outweighs Michael's because Ryan's problem was once _everyone's_ problem. And he's fucking terrified of backsliding. He would rather die, after knowing what happened to Gavin, than let himself hurt them again. If they were in a competition to see who could out-stoic the others, his childhood would give him a good start on it. But they aren't and Jack is never too tired to beat that corpse, pun never intended. So while Ryan wants nothing more than to branch off and save the others the trouble, Jack's there gripping his hand tightly and keeping him from gnawing the nails right off. He's there to hold him close, to prove he isn't detestable or dangerous, to force him to accept his constant presence.   
For Jack, digging Ryan out inch by stubborn goddamn inch from his own mind, waving off his apologies, determinedly proving him wrong over and over again, is enough of a challenge to occupy him. He refuses to let what happened ruin Ryan and that's what keeps him sane when guarantees cease to exist. He worries about the others, sure; knows they're not coping in a way that's healthy. Arguably some methods are better than others, but none of them are perfect. So they all plod along, moving through this weird new life where the rules were all batshit twisted so much that though they came in as players, with actual prior experience, they still floundered. When he's finally gotten Ryan to sleep, even he has to wonder; is this really living?  
Maybe it isn't. Everything in this world, including its dimensions, is designed to test and wear at them. They're constantly balancing on some edge, with varying consequences. Some are as insignificant as missreading the terrain and falling on their ass, while others are deadly, though not always in direct ways. Just being able to function as this small band of...brothers—there's really no other word for it—is a monumental chore, an exercise in incredible equilibrium and they constantly kick dirt on their presumed limitations. But there's only so much strain anyone can take before it catches up with them and they're flagging.  
Subsisting in a videogame, cut off from the rest of humanity, ripped from their homes and lives and shoved into a survivalist's hell, takes a lot out of them. They've learned ways to deal. Some put their heads down, mutter and scream and rave their shortcomings at the ground and hope they don't smash head-first into anything. Others take them by the hand and divert them around obstacles, try to herd them toward a single goal they can't make out. And yet others stand stock still and watch their comrades circle with hooded eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on [my tumblr](ficcyshit.tumblr.com).  
> Just as a head's up, the rest of the fic is going to be huge. And perspective will be a kind of funny thing.  
> Hopefully people like it? Comment and ask questions. I dare you. (No, seriously, feel free to.)


End file.
